


The World Was Off Balance

by rook_fern



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, everything is a bit not good, you might find some johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:43:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rook_fern/pseuds/rook_fern
Summary: Basically a drabble fic to release the emotions left in the upheaval of TST. Sherlock has too many feelings.





	

The world was off balance.

 

It hadn't been right since that gun had been fired. The moment the trigger was pulled and the bullet came charging out of the barrel, everything was knocked off kilter. Not that anyone noticed at the time. No one had a chance.

 

The sharp bang was jarring, just like the predictable unpredictableness of Vivian Norbury. He should have seen it coming. Mary did.

 

Her words, insistent and repetitive, had fallen on his deaf ears. She had tried to warn him; winding people up wasn't a good idea when a gun was involved. But winding people up was his specialty. He had been too swept up in the moment, the thick, prideful feeling of triumph and elation of another case solved in the forefront of his mind.

 

It was his fault. John was right. He had broken his vow.

 

He knew the shot was coming, but Mary knew before.

 

Time went slow, and then too quick. The sudden quiet after the bang was deafening, then it was too much as all hell broke loose in a surging uproar. Norbury was being taken away- Mary was on the floor- he was crouched beside her- there was so much blood, his brain knew it was hopeless, but he clung to the shreds of hope like a lifeline- his words were too sharp, too bland, too emotionless as he demanded an ambulance be called. What was happening?

 

John was there. John would fix everything that he had broken. (Nothing is fine; Mary is dying because of you.) But what Sherlock broke couldn't be fixed, not even by John.

 

He couldn't move as Mary's head dropped, her eyes wide open and unseeing. She was dead. (It shouldn't be this surprising.) The world had stopped spinning; everything was on pause.

 

John's guttural moanings shattered everything, and the world began to spin too fast. He couldn't catch up; it was slipping from his grasp. The horrendous sounds continued, and the betraying hot needles pricked at his eyes with the telltale beginning of undeniable tears.

 

He grasped at the quickly-vanishing coattails of what had been; a chance... he stepped forward, mouth open.

 

And then snapped shut. John's quavering words bit at him more painfully than any whip or iron or mortal instrument of agony. He had failed.

 

He had failed John.

 

The tears were there, brimming at the edges of his lashes, threatening to fall. (John surely saw them; he must have wondered why they were there.)

 

John's scorching glare blessedly left him, returning to his source of anguish. Slowly, shuffling, Sherlock took steps away from the cataclysmal scene.

 

He shook like a small child, and it showed in his hesitant steps backwards. Of course it was obvious; it garnered a sideways glance from Mycroft, something to be brought up later, no doubt.

 

The world fell into a blur. The ambulance had arrived, but it was far too late. Someone had called him a cab, and somehow he had ended up inside it. He recalled little from the ride between the aquarium and home; there were only flashing lights and the whirling of sounds.

 

Along his cheeks, something burned him, and with a strangely shaking hand, he swiped at it. A tear had tracked its way through his lashes, burning everything in its hot, fiery path downwards. His brow knit it mindless perplexion and he stared at the glistening droplet shivering on his trembling finger. Dimly, it reflected the too-fast world around him.

 

The world was off balanced.

 

That was made clear when his heavy steps trudged up the stairs to the dark door labeled 221. The brass knocker was slightly tilted to the left, just as John always left it. He stood there a moment, staring at the sideways handle.

 

A deep breath in, and he opened the door. Strangely, he found himself lingering beside the coat rack, his Belstaff in hand. It hovered right above its usual peg, and the ones around it were empty, just like always. Another breath, and he placed the coat in its proper place.

 

Mrs. Hudson had appeared at the top of the stairs, and she had already called to him once. The second time, she must have something was off. She was halfway down the stairs, a look of worry creasing her face. Questions were asked, but they felt meaningless.

 

His hand fell away from where it was emptily rubbing the collar of the Belstaff. He turned to face Mrs. Hudson and took steps forward until he reached her; his steps felt mechanical - wrong. He watched her hand raise and hover over his arm before withdrawing; it took effort to meet her gaze with lost, tired eyes.

 

She understood. (She doesn't know what has happened; she doesn't understand.) Her movements lost their hesitation and gained persistence, and they wrapped around him and pulled him in close. Though he stood over her, he felt like a child once more, his forehead pressed on her shoulder and nose buried in her collar. (She smells like fresh biscuits and tea and laundry detergent.) He made no sounds besides a single, small, gasping intake of breath. (You're Sherlock Holmes; you do not sob.) Mrs. Hudson merely tightened her grip on him, and they stood there in the foyer of the flat for a very long moment; they only broke apart when a weary stiffness began to settle in the air around them.

 

He found her gaze again and was met with a sad but hopeful and warm smile. (She doesn't know. She doesn't know what you've done.) The air was sluggish as they depart, and every movement felt like a losing battle against a powerful, suffocating tide. He made his way past her and up the stairs. One turn, and he was in his flat.

 

He stopped in the doorway, looking around the still room with helpless surreality. Everything was how they left it. The knife was still upright, skewering a few papers to the mantle. The pillows on the couch were dimpled slightly where their elbows and backs once rested. Through the half-covered window, the streetlight shone through, illuminating the two chairs facing each other in a bath of golden light. Shifting softly in the few air currents, the red balloon was cradled in John's chair; the helium that once held it aloft was departing, and it was slowly descending into the shadowy depths of the armchair.

 

He found himself making his way to his chair and setting himself delicately in it, as though the false reality of normality might shatter at too strong of a movement. His eyes locked onto the shriveling red balloon, tracing lightly over John's simple but previously-amusing sketches of a face - John’s face.

 

One more deep breath. Then...

 

"I'm sorry, John." It came out in a rush, leaving him lightheaded. "I failed. I broke my vow. I'm sorry..." He couldn't hold the balloon's unwavering stare and dropped his face into his upturned palms, burying it in them. "I'm so sorry..." The sob burst forth from him, quiet but deafening. (You're only human. Humans can cry.)

 

The world was off balance, and not even he could fix it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My brain would not rest until I had some way to vent my emotions on how I felt in the aftermath of The Six Thatchers. This fic, I think (and hope), has appeased my restless thoughts and twitchy nerves, at least until episode 2.
> 
> I have some theories and thoughts still floating around (and plenty of room for more angst). I'd love to hear what everyone else is thinking and feeling in the comments.
> 
> (On a completely unrelated note, this is my first free-standing Sherlock fic. It was created in a wringing and drying of all emotions from my brain, and little to no serious actual thinking or planning was put into it, so meh. I don't really know how it turned out.)


End file.
